


Our Chorus Will Sound Till the Break of Dawn

by Unlimited_Siggy



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Celtic Punk vs Folk, Gen, M/M, Modern AU, Rivalry, bands on tour, eventual Crozier/Fitzjames, it'll be a fun ride, this AU has kept me up late at night
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-22 01:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17653616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unlimited_Siggy/pseuds/Unlimited_Siggy
Summary: Francis Crozier and James Fitzjames are men on opposites of the same coin. As leads of their own distinct musical acts, they must put aside their petty grievances and work together to ensure life on the road doesn’t go to all hell.Modern AU that eventually will lead to some Crozier/Fitzjames. I'll add the appropriate tags and characters as they appear, likewise to the rating as it may change down the line.





	1. The Offer

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy the commissioned character designs wonderfully drawn by kami-ships-it, direct-linked with permission just below, but also [here](https://kami-ships-it.tumblr.com/post/182448364975/the-terror-boys-as-a-folk-rock-band-commission).
> 
>   
> 

_No. fucking. way._

There was no _fucking_ way Francis was going to squeeze himself into a pint-sized tour bus and travel over five thousand _fucking_ kilometres with a gaggle of no-talent pretentious pricks… Not for all the whiskey in Ireland. This had been Francis’ first and only thought of consequence when their manager, J. Franklin, pitched the idea to him and his bandmates.

Truthfully, it had been some time since an opportunity such as this had been presented to them. The boys, all of them, were excited by the prospect of going on tour overseas and expressed their interest readily, especially John, who’d only joined the band within the last year. The room fell silent as Tom and the others—Ed, John, Hodge, and Alex turned to Francis in eager anticipation of his answer.

Unfortunately, Francis’ face said it all—the disappointment expressed by those present was almost palpable as six pairs of eyes simultaneously averted themselves to gaze down at the carpeted floor in silence. Without having uttered a single word during the entire meeting, and with nothing to say now except possibly a string of creative obscenities, Francis rose silently from the table and headed for the door. Fuck that bullshit—what he needed was a cold drink and a quiet place to piss his troubles away.

Refuge was sought at his old watering hole in Stoke Newington, the _Auld Shillelagh_. With the pub practically to himself, Francis took up residence on one of the bar stools and allowed himself to indulge in his melancholy and brood on recent events.

It wasn’t the tour itself that irked him, though there was hardly any money to be made on tours these days. In fact, they were more likely to _lose_ money than make it back even if they were to scrimp on what John, quote en quote, called ‘luxuries.’ The luxuries in question would be good food, comfortable accommodations, and enough space not to get on each others’ nerves. The bus would be uncomfortable as hell with both bands onboard and little to no room for privacy. He’d done it before in his younger years, but the experience had severely tried Francis’ patience. These memories, however unpleasant, were not the source of his virulent contempt of Franklin’s proposal.

What had immediately put Francis off the whole affair was the fact they would be touring with another act under the record company’s label—the _Knights of Snowden_ , and it would be a cold day in hell before Francis ever agreed to play with them.

 _Knights of Snowden._ The damned name itself was insufferable…what did it even mean? Francis hadn’t a clue but thought it just as stupid and self-indulgent as the band’s vocalist James Fitzjames.

On happenstance, or rather more accurately, forced by Franklin’s enthusiasm, Francis had listened to a few tracks from the band’s first album. Suffice to say, Francis was neither impressed by their musical ability nor by their lyrical prowess. Unlike the raw, unpolished sound of _The Northwest Terrors_ , the _Knights of Snowden_ were traditional to a capital-T and sounded more like a university glee club than a _proper_ band. There was hardly a scrap of originality to the songs he heard which were, predictably, covers of well-loved and familiar tunes.

The nail in the coffin for any friendship between them had occurred at the annual Christmas party held at POLAR record’s headquarters. This was where Francis had had the displeasure of meeting the haughty musician for the first time in addition to the other five members of the group who were more or less duplicates of each other, at least in his mind.

Francis had found himself nearly bored to tears when Fitzjames recounted his days' backpacking across the Indian subcontinent and was forced to excuse himself before his candor got the better of him. Later in the night, he’d overheard the man going on about his approach to music to a crowd of young interns mesmerized by Fitzjames’ _naturally_ abundant charm.

“As you might expect with any acquired skill, what it boils down to is having a good foundation to build upon. Then, and only then, after you’ve grasped a mastery hold of the basics are you able to expand your sound beyond a simpleton’s cursory understanding of composition and engage in something more meaningful than musical masturbation.”

Francis had snorted loud enough for the entire group to shoot a pierced look in his direction. In response to their severe glares, Francis muttered a half-hearted apology and continued on his way to the elevators which he took to the rooftop for some fresh air and a smoke. As snobbish as Fitzjames’ perspective was, it hadn’t been beyond the pretention the older man had imagined and even expected in the younger. What _had_ been outside of Francis’ consideration was the vocalist’s viciousness as if he were a gossipy high school teenager.

It was while he was on the roof, lounging against the protective railings with his smoke, that Francis had accidentally overheard the private conversation between Franklin and Fitzjames who must’ve been standing on a balcony somewhere below him.

“…why you ever chose to represent such a man I don’t know,” remarked a dull voice which belonged to no one else other than Fitzjames.

“Nonsense, while Francis is certainly…a little rough around the edges, he has always been dependable.”

Apparently, neither man had been aware of his presence or of how their voices carried on the wind. Curious, Francis remained but he’d regretted the decision the second the younger man spoke again.

“Dependable,” scoffed Fitzjames, disbelief plain in his voice, “from my understanding their record sales are in decline and have been over the last year or more. Crozier is a lush, plain and simple. How the man remains upright, let alone able to play his guitar at any show, is beyond me. Don’t get me wrong, there are some talented chaps in his group but the man is killing whatever chance they’ve got on holding fast to any ounce of success they’ve achieved or ever will.”

“Now, see here, Francis has never failed to—”

Loath to listen any further, Francis had tossed his half-finished cigarette over the edge, shoved his hands back in his pockets, and left the party altogether. He didn’t need or want to hear his manager or the stupid _fucking_ prick Fitzjames talk shit about him. So what if he drank a little? It was none of their fucking business. Francis had enough to deal with than to let himself dwell on Fitzjames’ comments, this, of course, did not stop him from dwelling on those exact comments months later.

Francis was four fingers deep when his brooding was rudely interrupted.

“ _Oi!_ Now, how in hell did I know where t’find ya, I wonder?”

Francis didn’t need to turn around to know who’d called out to him from the front door of the nearly empty pub. Tom Blanky was one of his oldest friends and the second founding member of their band, _The Northwest Terrors_.

“You know as well as I do there’s nowhere else I’d be,” Francis replied unenthusiastically as he tipped back his glass of whiskey into his mouth.

The _Auld Shillelagh_ has been Francis’ patron pub since he first arrived in London some twenty-five years earlier. It was the place where he and Tom had played their first ‘official’ gig long before any of their younger bandmates had become serious musicians. They’d seen the place grow, expand, and even found themselves immortalized on the pub’s walls.

“I hope you didn’t come here to try an’ convince me t’change my mind,” remarked Francis in an offhanded manner, “there’s no way in _fucking hell_ I’m going on tour with that pampered poodle _Fitzjames_.”

Francis spat the younger man’s name as if the word itself was bitter to taste.

“Oh, come off it Francis,” huffed Tom as he made his way to the bar proper and took a seat next to his friend’s hunched over form. “The man’s not so terrible. We used to play those same songs when we first got ourselves started. D’you remember? Franklin isn’t wrong when he says they’re a promising band that just needs a bit o’ real-world experience. Who better t’show them the ropes than us grizzled ol’ souls?”

“Speak for yourself,” mumbled Francis dryly though he internally bristled at the statement.

“No, I think I can speak plainly for the both o’ us,” replied Tom as a shot of whiskey was poured in front of him alongside Francis’ empty glass. “If you haven’t noticed, we aren't getting any younger an’ in a few short years we’ll be on the wrong side of fifty.”

“Christ, don’t remind me,” groaned Francis before they each picked up their glass, threw back their heads, and downed the smoky liquor. The empty glasses were brought down hard on the bar top which signaled the barkeep to return with the bottle which he then left behind. God, Tom was right, they were old men, at least old when it came to the music business. They were anywhere between seven to twelve years older than the rest of their bandmates and who knew how many years older they were compared the newer bands on the market.

“How many tours do ya think we’ll be offered after this one? Or better yet, how many tours do ya think you’ve got left in you?”

Francis remained silent while Tom poured the next shot for them.

He didn’t have an answer to the first question because there wasn’t one. There was no guarantee of any future tours now that Franklin’s focus was on nurturing the newest talent under his official management. Francis could attempt to secure work independently, act as the band’s manager and agent, but it was a lot of work, and quite honestly he was not the best man for the job. If he did secure a few shows, Francis would also need to secure a team for the road and handle all the other nonsense that went with being a manager on top of performing in the show. Being on the road was as hard on the body as it was on the mind and even if Francis didn’t want to admit it, he didn’t know how much longer he could go on.

“You’ve got that look in your eyes, Francis, all despondent like,” observed Tom as if he knew the course of his friend’s ruminations. “God knows I’d have a rough go of it, that is, if you changed your mind, what with those cramped cubbies and my back as it is, but, there’s really no other place I’d rather be than performing for a lively crowd.”

Francis sighed but made no comment as he reached for the shot in front of him.

What would he do if he quit the music business? Work in some shop until he retired? Then what, go live by the sea? Rot away in some retirement home, alone, without any friends, until the day he died? If Francis continued down this depressing rabbit-hole, he was going to need another bottle.

Just before he pressed the glass to his lips, Francis paused and looked over at Tom. The man had not reached for his drink; instead, he sat quietly in reflection, and stared down at his loosely folded hands. There was something he wanted to say, Francis could sense this much.

“What,” he asked, suspicious in the change of Tom’s demeanour, “go on, spit it out before whatever it is, eats ya inside out.”

Tom clicked his tongue and reached back to rub the base of his neck before he opened his mouth to speak.

“Well, after you stormed out o’ the office an’ the boys trickled out after that, Franklin took me aside an’ shared an interesting bit of information.”

Francis’ brow slowly raised as he waited for the bomb to metaphorically drop.

“If we don’t go on this tour there is another band that is being considered t’take our place, but, all things considered, I won’t stoop t’mention their name…”

As swift a bolt of lightning, Francis brought down his fist against the bar which caused the glasses nearby to jump. Luckily, neither glass spilled its contents. For a moment, Francis’ body trembled from his barely contained rage but he quickly regained his composure. He turned to Tom, and shook his head but knew what his friend had shared with him was likely the God damn truth.

“Franklin said we had a bit of time to think about it. You already know how the boys feel, so it’s up t’you on whether we give this a pass, but, you _know_ as well as I do, you-know-who won’t balk at any opportunity he’s given an’ the little prick will hold any success he has over you till he ends up in his grave.”

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, Francis would have to decide what was the lesser of two evils. The troubled artist turned back to the bar, downed his whiskey, and slipped his head into his hands while his mind wrestled between the two options. In effect, he would either have to deal with six weeks of James Fitzjames’ asshattery or a lifetime of Cornelius Hickey’s smug satisfaction of witnessing Francis’ own humiliation and misery.

This was most certainly a cosmic _fucking_ joke…

“At least think about it, an’ I mean _really_ think about it, an’ don’t let your anger get the better of you,” advised Tom who poured them both another shot while his other hand reached out and slapped Francis on the back. When Francis did nothing to respond in either the affirmative or negative, Tom cleared his throat and said, “right, well, we’ve yet t’make a toast this evening. Care t’do the honours?”

Francis allowed himself a moment to collect his thoughts before he lowered his hands, reached for his glass, tapped it against Tom’s and said, “to alcohol, the salve for all life’s miseries.”

Both men laughed; the toast was as old as their friendship. Francis had uttered those exact same words after a particularly disastrous show, and they seemed more relevant now than ever. Tonight, they would drink themselves stupid, but tomorrow, after Francis had time to nurse his hangover, the man would go have a chat with Franklin and give his manager his final decision.


	2. Between Scylla and Charybdis

On what would have otherwise been an quiet Tuesday night, Francis and Tom spent it anywhere between two to three sheets to the wind. Shortly after last call, and having noticed they were the only two patrons left, the two friends decided to call it quits and said goodnight to the staff. When they stumbled outside into the cool night air, they found a cab already waiting for them. This act of kindness was no doubt due to Vera, the longest-serving waitress at _Auld Shillelagh_ , who’d been tending to the other regulars.

“Here, you take this one, I feel like going for a walk,” mumbled Francis, a cigarette between his lips, while he fumbled around his pockets for his lighter.

“Alright, but you’re t’get home safe. I’ll be right pissed if I hear you ended up in the Lea...”

Out of what seemed like thin air, Tom produced a match and lit the end of Francis’ cigarette. The older of the two wrapped his arms around his friend’s shoulders and gave the man a squeeze before he pulled back and said, “an’ don’t forget t’think on what we talked about earlier.”

Francis scoffed, took a long drag of his cigarette, and replied, “alright, alright, you’re beginning t’sound like my mother.”

“You’re lucky I don’t box your ears for that,” remarked Tom as he turned and headed to the cab.

“G’night, old man, an’ don’t forget t’give my love t’Esther,” shouted Francis as the cab pulled away from the curb and disappeared down the road.

After his smoke was finished, Francis stamped it out and headed down the street towards his flat in Clapton. At a brisk pace, he could reach his destination within thirty minutes, however, he took his time and had another cigarette when he reached the Hackney Downs. All-in-all, it took Francis just over an hour to walk home. The quaint two-storey building had been Francis’ home since _The Northwest Terrors_ first signed with POLAR records. His flat wasn’t extravagant by any means, in fact, it was the smaller unit out of two in the building, but it was close to Hackney Station and accommodated Francis’ needs which were modest.

In a few short hours, Francis would need to head down to Franklin’s office and let the man know one way or the other his true feelings about his manager’s offer. As much as he loathed the idea of being stuck with the likes of Fitzjames and company for the duration of the tour, the discomfort would be finite, whereas the alternative was unequivocally not so. Francis would rather suffer a short while than let a good opportunity fall right into the hands of an ex-bandmate turned competitor who actively sought his ruin. With no desire to dwell on his problem any longer, Francis collapsed into bed where his eyes drifted shut and he allowed sleep to claim him.

When next he opened his eyes, Francis knew he was in a dream.

There, above him, he observed a blanket of stars though they appeared much brighter than usual. A view such as this was not possible in London or even in the suburbs where light pollution obstructed the cosmic ballet. A calmness, encouraged by a gentle rocking motion and the sound of lapping water, washed over Francis while he gazed up at the heavenly bodies with contentment.

Francis’ meditation was broken when he was unexpectedly bathed in the soft glow of lantern light. Curious, Francis sat up to better gauge his surroundings. He was in a boat, that was discernible enough, and there were other boats too, but he appeared to be the only passenger among them.

Somewhere up ahead, carried on the wind, Francis could hear a pleasant melody. On what it was played and by whom he did not know, but it _felt_ familiar though Francis could not place the tune for the life of him. On the tip of his tongue sat the words, tantalizing, yet unattainable. Francis _needed_ to know the source of the music and found himself willing the boat forward against the current. The further the vessel was propelled, the clearer the music became but before Francis could pinpoint any other hints he was unceremoniously roused from his slumber.

A nudge of something wet against his cheek and the smell of stale breath had the immediate effect of waking Francis. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know what time it was, Neptune was gracious enough to tell him with his low, soft ‘woof.’

“Alright, alright,” grumbled Francis as he brought his hand to his face and rubbed his tender eyes, “jus’ give me a minute.”

Neptune, of course, did not understand English and pressed his nose against the back of Francis’ hand until the man finally sat up.

An alarm clock was unnecessary as, without fail, the large black Newfoundlander woke Francis every morning at the crack of dawn. Compelled to rise, if only to feed and let Nep out to piss, Francis went about their usual morning routine. While the Newfoundlander was out in the back yard, Francis prepared the dog’s breakfast and brewed a pot of coffee. Nursing one hell of a hangover, he poured himself a bit of a pick-me-up which would hopefully ease his suffering by the time he was ready to leave the house. It was unseasonably bright out, which meant sunglasses would be in order if he were going to step outside.

By the time Francis was dressed, caffeinated, and ready to bite the proverbial bullet, it was a little past seven. There was just enough time to catch the seven fifteen if he walked double-time. Door locked, dog fed, and coffee replenished, Francis headed southwest towards Hackney Central where he planned to catch the overground and arrive at the Kensington office within the hour. Luck on his side, Francis arrived at the station with minutes to spare before the train pulled in. As he headed down the steps to the platform, Francis strode over a patch of dark ice and skidded on its surface.

“Christ almighty,” he exclaimed when one foot slid out from under him. Thankfully, the musician caught himself by the railing and stopped his unexpected descent. Francis had avoided hitting the cement steps, but it was at the cost of his arm which he’d wrenched in the awkward motion. Further to his annoyance, the contents of his mug had been jostled and were now splattered across the front of his jacket.

“One of these days you’re going to end up flat on your arse and I won’t be here to pick you up. Here, let me give you a hand.”

With a defeated sigh, Francis bobbed his head and handed over his coffee to his friend and neighbour, Tom Jopson.

“Thank you, much appreciated,” Francis replied as he pulled himself up and drew his leg back until it was fixed firmly on the cement and could support his weight. Francis looked down at his coffee splattered jacket and asked, with a touch of dejection in his voice, “now, you wouldn’t happen t’have a napkin on you?”

“‘fraid not, but I might have a tissue.”

“That’s better than nothing, give one here if you please,” he said and used the flimsy material to brush his coat while the pair continued, albeit more cautiously, down the steps and onto the busy platform.

“So, how’s your mother doing?”

Thomas shrugged, and handed Francis’ his empty mug, “she’s alright, the cool weather has been a bit hard on her, but that’s just how it goes sometimes—you know, some weeks are better than others. How’s Neptune?”

“Just as fat an’ lazy as ever, though you’re welcome t’come see for yourself.”

Francis had known Tom ever since his family moved in next door some fifteen years prior. They shared a love for music, and old vinyl, and when Tom took up the guitar Francis gave the teenager lessons in exchange for watching his flat while he was away. Now in grad school, Tom had nearly finished his course requirements in music education and was about to begin work on his dissertation. Francis was proud of what Tom had accomplished and wished the young man well.

The two continued to chat as they boarded the train and even after they switched to the Victoria line, though Tom’s stop came much sooner than Francis’ and they were forced to say farewell at Warren Station.

When Francis arrived at Franklin’s office he was surprised to learn his manager was already with another client. It was hardly a quarter past eight, but _apparently_ , Francis hadn’t arrived early enough. Resigned to wait until his manager’s schedule opened, the hungover musician took a seat in one of the stylish, and unsurprisingly uncomfortable chairs near the reception desk and closed his eyes in an attempt to doze—his mind, however, had other plans.

His late night dream of the midnight boat and of the phantom song returned though Francis was unable to discern any useful information from the nonsensical fantasy. Dreams of this nature, vague and elusive as they were, tended to leave an impression on him. Although Francis had grown up in a traditional home and had received a conventional education, superstitions impressed upon him by his grandmother were not so easily brushed aside or forgotten. The seeds of her unorthodox beliefs had been planted and were as much a part of him as his love of music.

Francis didn’t like the word premonition nor did he like the term, déjà rêvé, but they were as close to describing his experiences as he’d come to understand them. Once in a blue moon, Francis’ dreams granted him a brief glimpse of the road ahead before being hidden again. There was _something_ coming, Francis felt it. What _it_ was, he didn’t rightly know, but the musician was certain all would be revealed to him in time.

Forty-five minutes later, after Francis had begrudgingly fallen asleep, neck wrenched to one side, Franklin’s door opened and out poured the sound of laughter. The guitarist woke with a start which caused his sunglasses to bounce on the bridge of his nose. It was too _God damn_ early for anyone to be laughing that loudly without a drop of alcohol in their system. Temple throbbing, Francis lifted one hand and rubbed small circles around the tender spot near his brow. Any louder, and he would be forced to walk out of the office and into the nearest pub.

“Francis, good heavens, I didn’t expect to see you this morning,” exclaimed Franklin who came to an abrupt stop at the mouth of the hall, his expression equal parts pleased and astounded. “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting, James stopped by quite unexpectedly, but it appears you had the same idea.”

“So it would seem,” replied Francis as he lifted his achy body out of the chair and grabbed his empty coffee mug.

Fitzjames’ previously jovial expression evaporated when Francis’ stiff form approached them. The younger musician nodded, his lips pulled into a tight smile and said, “it’s good to see you, Francis.”

 _Get bent_. This is what Francis wanted to say; instead he reached back to rub his sore neck, the corners of his lips pulled into an equally thin smile and replied, “you as well.”

The three men stood in awkward silence until Fitzjames motioned towards the glass door of the office and said, “well, I’d better be off. Thanks very much John, it was a pleasure visiting with you this morning.”

“And it was a pleasure to see you, now, don’t forget about supper on Thursday. Jane is very excited to see you and so is Eleanor.”

After Fitzjames bid them adieu, Franklin ushered his _other_ client into his office and closed the door behind him. The eager man pointed to a chair opposite of his desk and instructed Francis to take a seat while he did the same.

“Now, what can I do for you, Francis?”

“I’ve come t’talk to you about the tour,” explained Francis as he placed his mug on the desk and removed his sunglasses holding them loosely in his hand. “After some careful thought, I’ve come t’the conclusion it would be good for the band if we go overseas an’ do a couple of shows. You saw how excited the boys were, especially John, and who am I t’say no.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Franklin as he clapped his hands together in excitement, a large smile plastered across his face. “Well, what can I say other than I’m so _very_ glad you reconsidered. We’ve always done well in the North American market and especially in the Maritimes. There’s not a doubt in my mind we’ll see an increase in sales of our albums and maybe even garner some interest in recording one of the shows.”

The boys would be ecstatic if they managed to elicit enough interest for a live recording. The last time they’d done anything of that nature had been when Hickey—

_The fucking rat-faced back-stabbing son-of-a-bitch._

Francis unconsciously seized one of the armrests but relaxed his grip when he realized how he’d tensed. _Christ_ , he was liable to burst a blood vessel, unfortunately, Francis couldn’t help the way his blood boiled every time he thought of the man. He abhorred drama while Hickey lived and breathed chaos. It was no small miracle they‘d somehow avoided murdering each other in the time they worked together, but Francis also couldn’t deny they’d made some wicked music as well. Some of _The Northwest Terrors_ ’ best work had been recorded during this era and what Francis considered to be their most tremulous period.

While the guitarist’s thoughts strayed to the past, Franklin opened the top drawer of his desk, pulled out a pale manila folder, and handed it over to his client.

“Here’s a copy of the agreement which outlines all the details, deliverables, expenses, etcetera…” Franklin’s voice trailed off, and a puzzled expression flicked across his face before he said, “may I ask, what was it that changed your mind?”

“Does it matter?” mumbled Francis while he glanced over the first page of the document and flipped to the next.

Franklin sensed this was as much of an answer as he would get and replied, “no, I suppose not, but, I am delighted just the same as I can now advise the promoter and begin to make the necessary arrangements.”

Over the course of the next half hour, Franklin described the specifics of the contract and what would be required of the band. At the end of it, Francis nodded his head, added his signature to the document, and donned his sunglasses once more quite ready to leave. He’d spent more than enough time with Franklin for one morning and needed a stiff drink to compensate for all his trouble.

Save for the receptionist, there was no one else at the front desk nor in the hallway when Francis emerged from Franklin’s office. He was free to head out and find himself a drink, or so he thought. While Francis waited for the lift, Fitzjames appeared beside him having emerged from some unknown hiding spot, and asked, “Francis, may I have a word with you?”

“No,” replied the hungover musician rather bluntly but when the doors of the lift sprung open a second later he sighed knowing Fitzjames would follow him inside anyways and added, “alright, you have till the lobby.”

“Don’t worry, this won’t take long,” countered the younger man when they entered the lift. 

“May I assume you came to the office to inform Franklin of your decision about the tour?”

“Assume all you like,” replied Francis after he slapped the large ‘L’ button which caused the doors to close in front of them. His reply was undeniably childish considering Fitzjames would learn the truth sooner rather than later, however, Francis was in no mood to be polite. His pride continued to smart, more so now that he would be forced to play nice over the coming weeks with a man he considered to be a snobbish prick.

“Very well, then _assuming_ your band will be joining us, I believe we should discuss some particulars before we go on the road.”

“Oh, is that so, an’ what sort of _particulars_ were you wanting t’discuss,” answered Francis while he searched his pockets for his cigarettes. His eyes were fixed hard on the floor gauge above the doors, and if it were possible to will the lift to move faster Francis would’ve done so.

“Let me be frank with you, Francis, I know you don’t think very highly of me, you’ve made that perfectly clear but for the sake of everyone, let us put aside our grievances, at least, for the time being so we can focus on what’s really important—the success of our joint venture.”

 _Ugh_. There was nothing more insufferable than someone who desired to be a quote unquote, _better man_.

“You’re right about that, I don’t very much like you an’ I suspect the feeling is mutual, but you don’t have t’worry your pretty little head none,” explained Francis as his fished one of the remaining cigarettes from the crumpled cardboard box and popped it into his mouth. “I know what’s at stake and what’ll happen if we, or should I say _I_ fuck it up, so you can step off now an’ from here on out why don’t we just stay in each other’s respective lanes.”

Fitzjames was stunned silent and remained so when the lift came to a stop at the lobby.

“Great chat, very insightful, we should schedule another some time,” quipped Francis who was pleased by Fitzjames’ reaction. The brief moment of pleasure Francis experienced disappeared when the silver doors opened to another unexpected surprise.

 _Oh, for the love of all that’s Holy_ …

Who should be standing there, of all people, but Cornelius Hickey. Francis very nearly slapped the close door button but managed to resist the urge as well as the other which compelled him to strike Hickey across the jaw and knock the man flat on his arse.

“Well-well-well, what do we ‘ave here,” pondered Hickey aloud. “This is a strange sort of coincidence isn’t it? Here I was, minding me own business, on my way t’discuss big plans for me an’ me boys in fact, when who should I run into but _you_. Last I ‘eard you were playing the Tube for pocket change, but I’m glad t’see that’s jus a nasty ol' rumour an’ not based in any truth.”

“Fuck off,” snapped Francis as he stepped out of the lift and allowed his shoulder to strike Hickey’s as he passed on his way to the exit.

“ _Oi_! Watch yourself old man, else that temper of yours will get you in hot water!”

It was impossible to ignore Hickey’s comment, but Francis refused to turn around. Instead, the exasperated musician flipped his former bandmate the bird, continued through the lobby, and out the large glass double doors. Riled by Hickey’s provocations, Francis stepped to one side of the exit, lit his smoke, and paced the small space between the door and a decorative planter.

Out of all the people in the world, Hickey was the last person Francis wanted to see today. If there was one thing the son-of-the-bitch could do, and do well, was stick a knife in-between someone’s ribs and twist. The sly guitarist always knew what to say to cause the most damage with his words. Hickey had scarcely said a hundred words to him and somehow had struck at the core of Francis’ insecurities. So engrossed in his thoughts, Francis didn’t notice Fitzjames until the man stepped directly in his path. Forced to stop, the hungover musician brought his cigarette to his lips and took a long drag.

“I suppose there’s at least one thing we can agree on,” stated Fitzjames, hands nonchalantly stuffed into his pockets.

“ _Oh_ , what’s that?” asked Francis while looked on with genuine curiosity.

“Adversity makes the strangest of bedfellows. Between Scylla and Charybdis, I happily choose the former,” remarked Fitzjames as he briefly glanced over his shoulder and back again. “I hope to see you in Halifax, Francis. Till then, take care.”

Francis watched Fitzjames until he disappeared on Kensington and then tossed his cigarette to the ground. At least they were in the same boat, both seemingly preferred the other over _Hickey and The Mutineers_. With the day’s work over, Francis could concentrate on more important things. There was a small breakfast place down the way that served a nice toddy which would do him some good. Francis needed to give Tom a call as well as the rest of the boys and let them know in a few short weeks they would be headed overseas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for _Hickey and The Mutineers_ goes to _Firkin_ , specifically the following song, [Whisky in the Jar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kg1e8HUUKuA).
> 
> There's a frantic energy behind the music which I love. Also, could there be any other name for Hickey's band other than the Mutineers? It fits pefectly.

**Author's Note:**

> This modern AU came to me late one night and I haven't been able to pull myself away from its world since it formed. Consequently, I commissioned several character designs for it by [kami-ships-it](https://kami-ships-it.tumblr.com/), who does amazing work, and plan to commission several more a little down the line.
> 
> Thanks to Donald S. Passman and his guide, _All You Need to Know About the Music Business_. I knew absolutely nothing about the music industry until I picked up this book. It's been a great reference to get me better situated in this world.
> 
> Thanks to hangingfire for the suggested reading of William Battersby's _James Fitzjames: The Mystery Man of the Franklin Expedition_. It's been an awesome read so far and while I lost the note I believe it is where I obtained the name _Knights of Snowden_ although I may be wrong as I haven't been able to find it again.
> 
> Inspiration for _The Northwest Terrors_ goes to _The Real McKenzies_ , here's a link to one of their songs, [Seafarers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e3n2MOQBmSg).
> 
> Inspiration for the _Knights of Snowden_ goes to _Poor Angus_ , here's a link to one of their covers, [Barrett's Privateers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OnKXQIOSIHA).
> 
> A big thank you to the folks in The Terror fandom. You guys rock.


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